


Of Merlot and Mistletoe

by Prince_of_Elsinore



Series: Two times something nearly happened [2]
Category: The New Adventures of Old Christine
Genre: (both canon--mentioned), Brother-Sister Relationships, Brother/Sister Incest, Christmas, Cousin Incest, Episode Related, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest, Sibling Incest, Uncle/Niece Incest, non-established relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:55:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6087403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_of_Elsinore/pseuds/Prince_of_Elsinore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That one time Christine and Matthew cuddled under the blanket from the earthquake kit after learning their neighbors were all swingers and Lucy believed in Santa Claus, and then the lights went out; or, why was Matthew really so hesitant to spend the night at Christine's again after that Christmas?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Merlot and Mistletoe

“You know, it is a _really_ messed-up world when we are the two most normal people in it,” said Christine, shooting her brother a concerned glance.

Matthew let himself lean into her arm. He didn't have the energy or will even to sit up straight after the night’s disappointing turn of events. The couch was comfy, the Mylar blanket they’d pulled out of the earthquake kit was surprisingly warm (if a bit stiff) and his sister was solid and real and he needed to just feel someone else there. Because now he was girlfriend-less. Again.

"Lucy was so sure Santa was real..." He wasn't sure if he was more disbelieving or disgusted. "She's such a—"

"—freak?" finished Christine for him.

"Yeah."

Just then they heard scratching above them. As if there were something on the roof. They looked up, then at each other.

“Santa?” ventured Matthew.

“It’s either that, or rats chewin’ through the wiring in the attic,” grumbled his sister.

The lights flickered and went out, leaving the room illuminated only by the faint porch lights outside.

Christine turned to him. “Rats." Resigned to the decidedly un-magical reality of her crumbling home, she added a sarcastic "Merry Christmas, Matthew.”

“Merry Christmas, Christine,” replied Matthew, lackluster.

“Well,” sighed his sister, “power outage; I’d say this qualifies as an emergency, wouldn’t you?”

Matthew’s brow furrowed. “What kind of emergency?”

“The kind that calls for a drink."

“The sun setting in the west calls for a drink with you."

"Did it set in the west today?"

"What? Of course it—"

"All the more reason. Matthew, go get the emergency wine.”

“There’s a bottle right in front of you.”

“I’m gonna need more than one.”

“Look, I don’t think I want to drink too much after that eggnog—”

“Oh, you’re planning on having some? Then we’ll definitely need more than one bottle. I think there’s a Merlot on the counter.”

"Why do I have to get it?”

“Because…” Suddenly Matthew felt something poke hard into his ribs, right at his most sensitive spot. He leapt up with a squeal. “…You’re already standing,” smirked Christine, adding her self-satisfied Count von Count laugh at the end.

Matthew pursed his lips. “You don’t play fair.”

“All is fair in love and wine, Matthew.”

He rolled his eyes and went to do her bidding.

Ten minutes later they were huddled back together under the Mylar blanket, two stubby candle sticks stuck into empty wine bottles on the table in front of them, alongside two unopened bottles. Christine was taking a swig straight from a third.

"What did I ever see in her," a morose Matthew was wondering aloud.

"Me, apparently."

"Oh, don't be gross." He had the urge to pull away, but didn't. Too comfy. Too lazy.

"Hey, I'm not being gross; it wasn’t even my idea. Personally I don’t really see the similarities—Lucy’s at least twice as crazy as me and I’m at least twice as pretty as her.”

“And at least twice as old—”

“Alright, you know what, _fine_. I _guess_ I can see why everyone says we’re so similar. Especially when it comes to looks. I mean, Richard’s said it, Barb’s said it, the Meanie Moms said it after they thought they saw us kissing on the tennis courts—"

"—Wait what?!" Matthew looked at his sister, horrified.

"Oh, yeah, _that_ was an awkward conversation.” Christine pursed her lips in what Matthew had silently named her ‘lemon mouth.’ Matthew took the bottle from her hand and took a swig himself, waiting in trepidation for an explanation.

“They saw you making out with Lucy on the courts and thought it was me—or, well, they still think it was me, technically. I tried to explain but they seemed to think that just because Papa Jeff turned out not to be my father that meant I had used up all my 'get out of incest jail free' cards. But really, it’s their fault for thinking I was making out with my own father and brother—twice now, and wrong both times! I mean can you believe that? It's like they expect me to resort to incest."

Matthew cringed. "Well, between Uncle John and Cousin Greg, you do have a pretty impressive track record with the men in our family."

"But they don't know that! They just look at me and assume! Come on, do I really look so desperate I'd do my own relatives?"

"You did do your relatives."

"That's besides the point, Matthew!" She grabbed the wine bottle back.

"God, I am so not pursuing this issue with you. But Jesus—that was when I met Lucy. That was years ago. I've seen Marly and Lindsay like a thousand times since then—I've talked to them, given them therapy sessions and therapeutic massage sessions and seen them in l-labor—" He broke off with a gagging noise.

"So?"

"So? _So?_ This whole time they've thought I made out with you!"

"Have you even been listening to me? This whole time they thought _I_ made out with _you_! That is so much worse!" Another swig from the bottle.

"What—how is that worse? How is it worse for you than for me?"

"Because, Matthew, I am the mother of a child who goes to private school with their children. You're irrelevant."

"At this point they probably think I'm the father of a child who goes to private school with their children!"

Christine frowned. "Who, Emma?"

"What? What—no, not our fictional love child— _Ritchie_. They might think I'm Ritchie's father!"

Christine seemed to consider a moment, then shrugged with an apathetic grunt. "Whatever. Can't be worse for my reputation than them thinking Richard is the father."

Matthew stared at her. “You need help. And a class in ethics probably couldn’t hurt.”

"Anyway," continued Christine as if she hadn’t heard him, "it's clear the Meanie Moms don't care if you're involved with your sister.” She took a spiteful chug of wine. Matthew carefully pried the bottle from her grasp. “ _You_ get a pass, just because you’re—pretty, and, and, you know how to make women feel good about themselves and, and—pretty. Which I guess are the same thing. I mean Marly and Lindsay still wanted you to give them 'therapeutic' massages for seven thousand dollars an hour, even though they thought you made out with me. Those women are totally morally bankrupt, I'm telling you."

Matthew swung his head slowly to the side with his best ‘are you freaking kidding me’ look. "Well, no one knows moral bankruptcy like you, Christine."

"Damn right." She stuck her hand down the front of her shirt, felt around for a moment, and pulled out a flask.

Matthew's eyes rolled to the ceiling when he saw his sister touching her boobs—again—but the flask caught his eye. “Hey, is that—is that Jeanie’s flask? Did you steal your neighbor’s flask—your neighbor of five years who you just bothered to meet tonight?”

Christine unscrewed the lid and took a swig. “It’s not stealing, she gave it to me!” She shrugged.

“Try again.”

“She leant it to me!”

“Try again.”

“Well I’m planning to give it back!”

“Try again.”

Christine’s voice dropped to a low mutter. “Okay fine, I’m not giving it back.” Chastened, she sank sullenly down further into the cushions. “But come on, Matthew,” she whined, “I may barely know her, but I know all I need to know. I know that she’s a freaky husband-swapping, slutty poly-whatever. It doesn’t count as stealing if it’s from a freak.”

“Really, _really_ think about that ethics class. And what, being a swinger makes you a freak now? I hate to break it to you Christine, but you are in no position to judge. Which person in this room referred to themselves as a ‘ho-ho- _ho_ ’ just earlier today? Oh yeah, it was you.” Matthew took a long draught of wine and grimaced. “Besides, you really shouldn’t be throwing around the f-word considering certain rumors that are apparently circulating about us.”

“What? I say the f-word all the time.”

“No, not that f-word—' _freak_ ', Christine. In case you didn’t get the memo, screwing your brother is basically the definition of the word.”

“Hey, well, there’s a big difference between whatever suspicions anyone might have about us and what’s going on over at Jeanie’s house—and God knows where else on this block. One’s just rumor, and one’s cold, hard fact. Our neighbors are a bunch of freaky, orgy-having, average to below-average looking soon-to-be-retirees. We have the evidence. But there’s no substance to us.” She gestured flippantly between them. “I haven’t slept with you yet.” She finished off the flask.

Matthew stared blankly ahead. “I’m going to pretend oh so very hard that you did not say ‘yet’ at the end of that sentence.” He raised the bottle of wine to his lips and took one long gulp.

Christine wasn’t listening. Her nose was wrinkled and her lip was curled in that way that meant she was thinking hard about something: usually about some way in which a person had wronged her. "Do you think we should be offended that they never invited us to join in?"

"What, on the neighborhood sex parties? I think they did—remember they tried to ask us to the Christmas party a couple times till we wised up and got the motion-sensor sprinklers?"

"Oh yeah. Heh. I bet they wanted a piece of this. And _this_." She dug her elbow into Matthew’s side.

"Ow. Don't be gross."

"I'm not being gross! We are way better looking than anyone at that party tonight, Matthew. They thought I was pretty enough to be an escort!"

"I think the word they used was ‘prostitue.’ And that is not a compliment, Christine."

"Well, it is when you get to my age,” she grumbled ruefully. “Now, the question is, did they think you were my pimp, my John, or a male prostitute? You know, diversified, equal-opportunity brothel. Bordello.”

"The question is, can we please stop talking about this.”

“The Kimble-Campbell house of ill repute.”

“Don’t.”

Christine grinned. “Well, you can’t argue that this isn’t a _disorderly_ _house_.” She snorted at her own joke.

Matthew gave her a blasé look. She stopped laughing.

“Oh come on. That was at least a _little_ bit funny.”

"Believe it or not, I don't really like the idea of being a gigolo. Or of you being a prostitute."

“Oh come on, you’d be a natural. All you have to do is tell women they’re beautiful and their husbands are bastards and get physical every once in a while—pretty much what you already get paid to do.”

“Hey! That was only one time—okay, two—three times. And only with Marly and Lindsay. They’re very persuasive. They have very… large… pocketbooks.”

Christine grinned knowingly. "Uh-huh.”

Matthew huffed and shifted away from her. He wasn’t sure he could put up with his sister’s provocations just now. Incest and prostitution—he was feeling too weak to deal with it all. Just after he’d broken up for the second time with the woman he once thought would be _the one_.

Who was he kidding. There probably wasn’t anybody out there for him. Maybe incest and prostitution were his only remaining options. Dull prospects.

He set down the bottle and made to stand up. “Well, I don’t have to stand for you insulting my professional integrity. I should be getting home anyway—”

"Nooooo! Noooo, Mathewww," whined Christine, tugging on his sleeve. "I didn’t mean it. Well, I sort of did, but not that much. You can't go—I don't have any electricity! I've been cruelly thrust back into the stone ages! I'll have to cook over an open fire—I don't know how to make fire, Matthew! Don't leave me here to starve to death all alone!"

"Uh, Christine, you're not—"

"What if I burn the house down?"

"Why would you burn the house down?"

"Trying to make the fire! How would I call the firemen, Matthew?"

"You have a cellphone."

"And how do I charge that cellphone, huh? What if I lose it and can't find it because it's so dark, did you think of that?"

"There's a flashlight in the earthquake kit..."

"Stop being so logical! It's annoying." She pouted.

"Look, Christine, you'll be fine—just go to bed and wake up when it's light out again."

"Ugh, what's with you? You just broke off yet another failed relationship and you want to be alone? Where's the commiserating and the gorging on chocolate and trashy TV together? You've got your whole life to be alone, what's the big hurry?"

Matthew furrowed his brow, looking at his sister. "Why are you so upset? I'm the one who just broke up, not you."

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't want to be alone right now. In the dark." Christine crossed her arms defensively, casting a nervous glance round the room. One of the candles had spluttered out already, leaving a single flame to cast its warped shadows around the room.

Matthew leaned back on the couch, eyeing his sister suspiciously. "No way. You're afraid of the dark, aren't you?" His eyes shone gleefully.

"Hey, I'll remind you which one of us it was who came running into the other's room terrified that there were Oompa Loompas lurking in his closet at night."

Matthew's eyes widened. "Hey. Those things were freaky, okay? Little men with orange skin—gaaahh." He shuddered. "I had every right to be terrified."

Christine smirked. "Uh-huh. You were seventeen, Matthew."

"Yeah, we'll, you're a grown woman, so what's the big deal? Is it Oompa Loompas for you too?"

"No, it's not Oompa Loompas.” She rolled her eyes. “It's—I don't know, robbers and rapists and who knows what else—and just, this house." She scratched her nose, eyes downcast. "It's kinda empty, without Ritchie here. Since you moved away."

Guilt tightened Matthew's chest.

No, he had told himself he wasn't going to feel guilty about moving out. Grown men just didn't live with their sisters. Not as a long-term arrangement. It was the right thing to do. For both of them.

Right?

"Christine... you're not alone, you know. I mean, we still see each other pretty much every day. And this house—It's the center of things. The people we care about. There's a reason they all come here by default."

"Well, it sure ain't my Martha Stewart housekeeping."

"No, it's definitely not that." Christine shot him a dirty look, so he continued quickly: "It's because you're here, Christine. You're our connection to each other. You're the reason we're a family."

A small smile curled the corners of his sister's lips. "Aw, Matthew, you always know what to say."

Matthew smiled back at her. Successes in his therapy practice—from minor breakthroughs to greater triumphs—always filled him with a sense of content fulfillment, but with Christine he felt something more. Perhaps it was pride, that he knew what to say to make his difficult big sister smile; perhaps he was just happy to see her happy. Either way, he was elated whenever she looked at him like that: that way that said he made a difference in her life.

And then the candle went out.

Christine pulled the blanket tighter to herself with the deafening crinkling of Mylar. "You're not gonna leave now, are you Matthew?" she asked timidly.

Matthew sighed and slung his arm over her shoulders, pulling her back to his side and arranging the blanket over himself once more. "No, I'll stay. Just for tonight."

Christine snuggled close. Warm. Solid. It was nice. She fit just right into his arm. "Pass the wine."

Matthew reached for the bottle and discovered it was empty. He picked up the second and opened it—screw top, fortunately—before handing it to his sister. She took a swig before giving it back to him to do the same.

"I wonder how Ritchie's enjoying his first Kinderschnausen."

Matthew nearly choked on his mouthful of cheap Merlot. He swallowed and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, grinning. "Yeah, I wonder. What sort of presents do you think a Günterma brings? Or was it St. Santerpüdel?"

"I don't think they believe in saints, Matthew. It might not even be a Christian thing. In fact, I bet it's all a cover for some satanic initiation rite. That would explain a lot."

"Oh yeah. A lot, such as New Christine's obvious penchant for evil and lamb’s blood?"

"Don't be naive, Matthew. Anyone who looks that wholesome and pure is hiding something."

"You don't seem that concerned, if you're so sure." He took another drink.

Christine took the bottle from him. "Well I'm not, really. As long as Richard is there he won’t let them make little Ritchie touch Old Nicker-Licker's klingl-dingl."

Matthew snorted, and the wine went straight up his nose, stinging like a motherfucker. He made a strangled noise in complaint, fanning his hand frantically at his face.

Christine cackled wildly at his gesticulations. "You look like you just saw grandma in the bathtub," she gasped between hiccups of laughter.

"It went up my nose!" he protested, eyes watering.

"That's probably what you get for defiling the name of Guberma." Christine took her own gulp, sniggering.

Matthew glared at her. Sinuses still smarting, he shot back: "Kugerputer."

Christine lost it. Her face went from pained hilarity one moment to real pain the next as she inhaled the wine. She coughed.

"Ah ah ah, it stings, Matthew it stings!" Christine whined. She held her nose, eyes screwed up in discomfort. "Mmmmotherffffreakin’—gah!"

It was Matthew's turn to laugh. He fell to the side on the couch, unable to contain himself at the exclamations and inhuman sounds emanating from his sister.

Slowly Christine's squeals of pain turned to squeals of laughter. Unable to catch her breath, she slumped over on top of her brother. He rested a hand on her back and they melted together in a pile of unrestrained mirth. If one of them started to calm themselves down, the other managed to snort out another "Hüterschlumpfen" or "Fingerdinger" and the cycle of laughter would start all over again. Matthew's head was light from the wine and the sensation of a slowly spinning couch beneath him didn't help anything.

After what felt like a quarter of an hour, they finally stopped to breathe.

"Oh my God, my abs..." groaned Christine. "Forget the gym, I oughtta do this more often."

Matthew sighed, a silly smile splitting his face. "Any time." His fingers played absently with the tips of the strands of hair splayed over Christine's back.

Christine rested her chin on her hands folded over his chest and looked down at him. Her face was outlined in the pale light filtering through the glass patio doors.

"Merry Klübenbladder, Matthew." She grinned.

"Happy Garglglugger, Christine." He grinned back.

He realized just a bit too late that his fingers were still in her hair, and that he was still looking into her eyes.

Suddenly his body was flooded with warm tingles, and he was hyper-aware of every square inch where she pressed against him.

Part of his brain was giving off a warning signal to cut it out. Sit up; stop touching. But what was really wrong with it? There wasn’t anything blatantly inappropriate going on. She was his sister; weren’t they allowed to be close? Especially when it felt so nice. It was so warm, with her pulled over him almost like a blanket, her soft weight anchoring him on the perpetually spinning couch. And God, her hair was so soft—what made it like that? Was it her conditioner? He had to remember to ask if he could try it.

“You know,” began Christine, and there was a playful note in her voice, “somebody owes me a kiss.”

“Hmm? Who?” asked Matthew distractedly, combing through her silky hair.

“It’s bad luck not to kiss under the mistletoe,” she added pointedly.

It took Matthew a moment to remember. How he’d left his sister standing under the mistletoe, lips puckered and eyes closed. His hand froze.

“Oh.”

His stomach was wriggling like one of the water snake wiggly tube toys that had been popular back in high school. Christine was looking at him expectantly.

Heart hammering in his throat, he lifted his head hesitantly. Just a peck on the cheek would satisfy her, surely. That was probably all she meant anyway. What was he expecting? Nothing more than that, of course. Almost there, almost to her cheek—

Christine turned her head. Her lips met his.

For one electrifying eon of a moment, all Matthew could feel was the surprisingly—he ought to say disgustingly, but he couldn’t bring himself to think it—soft heat of another mouth pressed to his own. He was frozen with shock. He didn’t breathe. He couldn’t. He swore he felt her lips move against his, just a fraction.

But before he could melt into their inviting warmth, they were gone, and the air against his moistened lips was suddenly much too cold. He still didn’t breathe.

“Goodnight, Matthew,” murmured Christine contentedly, pulling up the Mylar and adjusting herself so she fit snugly between his side and the back of the couch, one arm and leg wrapped securely around him. Her face nestled into his shoulder.

Finally Matthew remembered how to breathe. He lay still, staring at the ceiling. There was a slight chill on his skin as the air met his sweat—he couldn’t be sure if it was just from the added body heat, or something else entirely.

He swallowed heavily, stomach still wobbling like one of those gel-filled plastic tubes, rubber fish beads surging this way and that.

His voice was hoarse when he finally managed to whisper back: “Goodnight, Christine.”


End file.
